132 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



had turned up. The celery had just rubbeft 

 through the fiery scorching of the drought, and 

 stood a faint chance to grow ; when I noticed on 

 the green leaves a big green-and-black worm, 

 called, I believe, the celery-worm : but I don t 

 know who called him ; I am sure I did not. It 

 was almost ludicrous that he should turn up 

 here, just at the end of the season, when I sup 

 posed that my war with the living animals was 

 over. Yet he was, no doubt, predestinated ; for 

 he went to work as cheerfully as if he had arrived 

 in June, when everything was fresh and vigorous. 

 It beats me Nature does. I doubt not, that, 

 if I were to leave my garden now for a week, it 

 would n t know me on my return. The patch I 

 scratched over for the turnips, and left as clean 

 as earth, is already full of ambitious &quot; pusley,&quot; 

 which grows with all the confidence of youth 

 and the skill of old age. It beats the serpent 

 as an emblem of immortality. While all the 



